


Vulcan Ghost Stories

by TomFooleryPrime



Series: Another Spock/Uhura Series [5]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Halloween, Haunting, Horror, Pon Farr, Post-Star Trek Beyond, Psychological Horror, Sex, Smut, Star Trek Beyond Spoilers, Yorktown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-22 21:23:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8301617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomFooleryPrime/pseuds/TomFooleryPrime
Summary: The chaos of Altamid left them a mess, but the quiet of Yorktown was a chance at redemption… until the night Nyota asks to hear a Vulcan ghost story. They soon find themselves plunged into a living nightmare of strange visions and disappearances, and they discover there may be more to Yorktown than meets the eye. A smutty and cerebral Halloween prompt in three parts.





	1. Part I: Dinner and a Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KerryLamb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KerryLamb/gifts).



Her hips rocked forward in slow rhythm, drawing him into her with focused pleasure. His hands drifted from her waist to her breasts, savoring the curve of her ribcage and the heat of her skin.

She leaned forward to kiss him.  _A moment of sweetness._

Her hips pulsed again.  _A moment of hunger._

He shifted his weight and pushed against her to turn her onto her back, but she slammed the heels of her palms into his chest and sat up. A knowing smile spread across her face, and she inched herself down onto him until a low whimper escaped her lips.

_How he had missed her._

Her eyes closed, and she dissolved into quiet exhalations and the trembling of her thighs. She was losing herself in the experience, and he was losing himself in her dominance.

He reached for her waist, but her hands clutched his wrists and drove them above his head. The tips of their noses touched; her face grew tender.

When he tilted his chin to kiss her, she abandoned the affection. Her mouth tore at his, and his senses were flooded with the push of her tongue, the wetness between her legs, and the tickle of her nipples on his chest.  _He was too close to the edge_.

She drew away with a soft gasp and he seized the moment. He planted his foot into the mattress and bucked upward with his left hip, sinking deeper into pleasure as they rolled together and he landed atop her.

She  _growled_  at him.

She was no match for the strength of his body, but he was weak in the shadow of her will.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and squeezed, and the edge came closer still. He exhaled to refocus himself but she was far from done with him. She looped her arms around his neck and hung from his body, pulling him in deeper.

He finally shed his composure and began thrust impatiently into her. She squealed and tossed her head back, arching her spine to press her small body into his.

_The twist of her fingers in the sheets. The ripple of her breasts. The intensity of her eyes._

It was always her eyes – those dark,  _smoldering_  eyes that made him toss away his last vestiges of logic.

She clawed at his back and entered a crescendo of panting and moaning. He felt her spasms and the sigh of her release, and he stumbled into his own pleasure in the wake of her ecstasy. He melted into her arms, sliding down her smooth body to rest his head on her chest and seek comfort in her heartbeat.

Her fingers danced along the turn of his spine –  _electric_.

He propped himself up on his elbows and began to kiss her breastbone, but she pushed down on his shoulders and began to wriggle away.

"I'm hungry," she announced, pulling herself upright and crossing her legs.

Spock sat back on his haunches and stared at her, taking in a slow breath and training his mind back to the logical discipline to which it was accustomed. A subtle grin broke across her face, and she bent forward to deliver a delicate kiss to the tip of his nose.

"Let's go," she called, bouncing from the bed.

Spock watched her trot to the sonic shower, unable to ignore the lines and curves of her supple figure. His mind was ablaze. He inhaled and closed his eyes.

He understood many things, but the fluid nature of Nyota's appetites would always be a mystery.

Thirty minutes later they descended in the turbolift to the upper levels of the central plaza to a long chain of restaurants and other eateries. It had been six days since Krall's attack on Yorktown, and though bots and maintenance crews had repaired much of the damage, the friendly atmosphere that had once flowed through the starbase was from healed.

Yorktown was a crossroads of cultures, constructed on the frontier to establish not only a base of operations, but also an informal cultural exchange. The destruction wrought by the Swarm left many of the Federation's newest members questioning the strength of the alliance they'd formed, and replaced their optimism with tension and fear.

These fears manifested themselves in peculiar ways.

Spock glanced down to the lower levels and could just make out a group of Berellian monks. Since the attack, they'd held vigil near the shipyard, convinced that the Swarm had been divine retribution for perceived moral failings.

The sensation of Nyota's fingertips on his knuckles shifted his thoughts. He observed her from the corner of his eye and noted a tiny, wry smile cut into her lips.

_He was very glad for her company._

"What sounds good?" she asked, slowing to observe an Andorian restaurant.

The cultural origin of the night's meal was of little interest to him. He was not especially hungry, but Nyota  _was_ , and he was content to be wherever she wanted to be.

She cocked her head back and rolled her eyes at him, fighting back a knowing smile.

"You don't have to stare at me," she whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

_They had been too long apart._

"Nor am I," he replied.

Their eyes locked and he looked away before he felt the urge to touch her. He glanced down the row of restaurants and considered his options when a hand slapped him on the shoulder.

"Hey  _kids_ ," Kirk beamed.

"Captain," Nyota grumbled.

"Where did you two run off to? I was looking for you after the party and Bones said you mentioned something about meditation."

"We did not 'run' anywhere," Spock explained.

The captain's belated birthday party had been pleasant, but reconnecting with Nyota had restored a part of himself he hadn't been aware was missing until she returned it to him. Perhaps it would have been wise to provide a pretense for their early departure, but neither of them had anticipated their quiet, private conversation in her quarters would have turned into something more physical.

"It was a good party, sir," she admitted with a wan smile. "We're just looking for something to eat."

" _Oh_! You have to try the Ktarian place," Kirk replied. "It might just be the best food I've ever eaten."

"I sense you are tending toward the human habit of exaggeration," said Spock.

"Oh  _no_ ," Kirk insisted. "I had a chocolate puff for breakfast this morning that made me want to write poetry."

"You ate something called a chocolate puff for breakfast?" Nyota sneered. "Are you five years old?"

"I am curious," Spock added. "What meter should one use when composing a poem to a chocolate puff?"

Nyota stifled a giggle and offered him a wink.

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," Kirk insisted, steering them toward a food stand run by an elegant, cat-like woman.

"Hello again, my pretty captain," the woman cooed. "I was hoping I would see you today."

"Do you have more of that stew from yesterday? It was so good I had dreams about it," Kirk exclaimed, turning back to Spock and Nyota to add, "Seriously, you guys should try this stuff."

Nyota sniffed the air and shrugged. "It  _smells_  good. Why not?"

The Ktarian woman poured three bowls and bowed in respect as she accepted their payment.

"I'll see you again tomorrow," the captain smiled with a little wave.

"No, I'm afraid not," she replied. "Tomorrow is  _Ungreshsk_  – the day of the dead."

"Is that a religious observance?" Spock asked.

"We spend the day alone, deep in reflection. It is a day when we remember our honored dead, and guard our spirits against the tainted ones. There are many tainted ones here on Yorktown."

"What makes you say that?" Nyota asked.

"The sick man is gone, but his wickedness lingers here still."

"You mean  _Krall_?" Kirk scoffed. "He went out an airlock. There's no way-"

"We wish you well on your spiritual journey," Spock interrupted, giving his captain a disapproving gaze.

The woman tilted her chin to study Spock, allowing a smile to slash across her sharp face.

"Be careful, my serious friend," the woman whispered. "The mind is a dark place."

Nyota's eyebrows flicked upward, but the three of them offered their thanks and located a table by the interior waterfall. It was the hour when many people took an evening meal, but patrons occupied fewer than half the tables.

"Place is still pretty dead, huh?" Kirk murmured, shoveling a heap of stew into his mouth.

"I wouldn't make jokes like that on the day before Ungreshsk," Nyota said with mock seriousness.

"There are a lot of superstitions floating around lately," Kirk agreed. "I overheard the Xyrillian bartender at my party talking about how this place is cursed."

"Ensign M'Ress told me this morning she thinks her cabin is haunted," Nyota added.

"The new Caitain communications officer?" Kirk asked.

"I'm not kidding," she nodded. "She swears she can hear voices in the shower."

Spock took a sip of the stew and discovered an elaborate blend of savory and tangy flavors. It was pleasant and comforting, and on his second bite, a warm feeling spread to his extremities and he realized how hungry he really was.

"Perhaps there is a malfunction in the acoustic inverter of the sonic shower," said Spock, taking in another large spoonful of the delicious dish.

"That's what I was thinking," Nyota admitted.

"A little superstition never hurt anyone," Kirk shrugged, scanning the plaza. "Though it certainly hasn't helped Yorktown's population."

"Debatable," Spock remarked.

"Huh?" Kirk murmured, slurping the last of the stew from his bowl.

"Superstition across many cultures can lead to torture and death. Did not humans often publicly execute accused witches by burning them alive?"

"Point taken," Kirk answered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Though I would like to think we've evolved a bit."

"Nevertheless, superstition is fascinating," Spock argued.

"I would have thought you would say it's illogical," Nyota rebutted, tossing him a careless grin.

Her smile travelled through her cheeks and into her eyes.  _It was always those dark eyes._

He repressed a fleeting recollection of their earlier encounter, swallowed, and replied, "Superstition  _is_  illogical and can be harmful, but that it exists across so many cultures as an attempt to explain mysterious occurrences suggests that sentient beings have an innate desire to understand and control the world around them."

"So does that mean Vulcans are superstitious?" Nyota teased.

"No," Spock replied. "It is illogical to suppose that things which defy explanation with scientific knowledge must be the result of supernatural phenomena."

"I don't know about that," Kirk joked. "I broke a mirror a few months ago and had a pretty bad day."

"Everyone knows that breaking a mirror gives you seven  _years_  of bad luck," Nyota retorted with a wide grin. "Maybe we should stay away from you."

"It is irrational to believe-"

"Spock –  _we know_ ," Kirk interrupted, holding up his hands in surrender.

The communicator at his hip demanded attention.

"I have a late evening meeting with Commodore Paris," Kirk moaned, pulling the device from his belt. "I'll leave you to your…  _meditative healing_."

A flush flashed across Nyota's face and Spock heard a soft snort as Kirk wandered from their table. When he caught her gaze, the corners of her mouth inched upward. Her eyes surveyed the immediate area in sly reconnaissance, and then he felt a tickling sensation on the inside of his lower thigh.  _Her fingers, daring and determined._

Spock looked away before his pulse could quicken, and exhaled a discreet, calming breath. Though she was out of practice, her talent for stirring things from deep within his psyche was as remarkable as ever.

The sound of chanting from the Berellian monks on the lower decks began to drift through the plaza. It was an eerie, low-pitched whine, and the duranium beams and aluminum glass of the station provided unique acoustics for the mournful sound.

"Do you want to go back?"

Her voice was faraway and empty. Spock scraped the last of the stew from the bottom of the dish, rolling the rich, viscous liquid over his tongue.

"You wish to return to your quarters?"

"Only if you're coming with me," she explained.

"You have yet to even sample your food."

He looked down at the full bowl of stew nestled between her forearms. She shrugged and said, "I have a preservation unit."

She clamped a plastic lid on the container and they wandered together down the long arm leading out of the upper plaza deck. There was a small crowd of people gathered around the railing to watch the ritualized remonstrations of the monks.

He caught a glimpse of something from the corner of his eye and his head snapped back to the crowd. There had been a man: a tall, familiar man with a purplish complexion just at the fringes of the group.

 _Krall_?

He was gone, or perhaps he had never been there at all.

"What is it?" Nyota asked.

"Nothing," Spock replied. "I mistakenly thought I saw someone."

They strolled out of the plaza and into the empty, wide corridor leading to her quarters. Her head and eyes were trained straight ahead, but she whispered, "Will you stay with me?"

Her language was imprecise, but no matter the intended meaning of her question, the answer was an undeniable  _yes_. She raised her chin and pursed her lips to deflect a smile, and he knew they were of one mind.

Their second sexual encounter was just as desperate and feverish as the first, at least in the beginning. Rather than attempt to dominate him again, Nyota allowed herself to be pitched onto the small desk in the corner of the room. She clawed at his belt while he hiked up the skirt of her coral dress, both of them caught in a race to please one another. Moments later, he entered her.

_How he had needed her._

Their synchronous movements were exhilarating, and he was soon lost in the grip of her legs around his waist and the pull of her hands around his neck. He felt the contraction of her muscles pulling him in and her low moans echoing his name. The words became more frantic, and soon she yelled, " _Spock_!"

He paused, realizing the bolts in the light aluminum frame of the desk were loose and the flimsy piece of furniture was on the verge of collapse. She emitted a candid laugh, and he looked around the room, plucked her from the small desk, and tossed her onto the unkempt bed.  _She was so small._

She bounced and when she propped herself up, her face was alight with wild surprise.

"I- I am sorry," he stammered, trying to regain control of himself.

She sat up on her knees and pulled the dress over her head and flung it at him.

"It's ok," she panted. " _I'm not that fragile_."

He stripped his blue tunic shirt and climbed onto the bed, laying her on her back while he kicked off his shoes and trousers. Her hands had grown more gentle and patient, and when they rejoined their bodies, he found himself connected to her in a way that bordered on completion.

Their movements were slow and purposeful, and he paced himself to drink in every image, every sound, every  _sensation_  of her body. They flowed together in harmony until they reached mutual gratification, and then curled into a tangle of arms and legs.

His heart hammered low in his chest and he focused on returning his breathing to a steady rate of twelve breaths per minute. He could see Nyota's pulse throbbing in her neck, and he reached for her hand and found it was trembling.

"Are you well?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"One of concern."

"What is this, Spock?"

"Could you specify?"

" _This_. Us. What are we doing?"

He understood her question was more general than literal, and in truth, he was unsure how to respond.

"I never stopped caring for you, Nyota, even after we agreed to go our separate ways."

"Why?"

"The heart has reasons which reason knows not."

She rested her chin on his breastbone and peered at him in the dim light of the room, her dark eyes searching for some unspoken thought.

"I love you, Spock."

"I love you also."

She pushed herself up and kissed him, and the warm embrace of her mouth and the tickle of her hair on his chest stirred something in him, not lust, but truly deep affection.

Her stomach turned in an audible growl, causing her to crane her neck to look at the bowl of stew she'd tossed on the entry table.

"You should eat," he urged.

"In a minute," she replied, rolling to her left side to stroke his chest. "That Ktarian woman gave me the creeps."

"The creeps?"

"Yeah, it's a very technical term –  _very scientific_. You probably wouldn't understand."

_He was the ship's science officer, of course he would-_

He cocked his head to stare at her, appreciating that her broad grin was indicative of jesting. She flipped onto her back and shimmied upward to rest her head next to his on the pillow.

"I guess all this talk about curses and ghosts is a little weird. Sometimes I see Ensign Syl in my dreams, dissolving into…"

She fell quiet and turned to face away from him. Her lingering words hung in the air, and he listened through the silence. He had read her report on Krall's camp, and Syl's fate had been unsettling.

"We just lost so much, you know?" she said.

Her voice was marred by a choppy, husky timbre. He stroked her cheek with his left hand, observing the fluttering of her eyelashes and the soft rise and fall of her chest. When she turned back to him, he noted the tears brimming in her eyes.

"I am grateful I did not lose you," he replied.

She inched her jaw forward, delivering a chaste kiss to his lips.

"So what does that mean?" she asked.

"I do not wish to be parted from you again."

"Specify," she muttered in a mocking, monotone voice.

"I regret distancing myself from you," he explained. "My actions were misguided, but with your consent, I would like to reinstate our previous arrangement of an exclusive, intimate relationship."

She bit her lip to hide a smile and kissed him again, with less innocence than before. His body responded immediately, but she pulled away with a smirk.

"Maybe we should pace ourselves."

He dismissed a glimmer of anxiety as he waited for her response to his proposal. He could not have anticipated the words that she finally spoke.

"Tell me a Vulcan ghost story."

He paused for a moment to collect his thoughts before saying, "Ghost stories are not in the Vulcan tradition."

"But you  _have_  stories. You have poetry. You even have a word for ghost –  _tam'a_ ," Nyota argued, propping her chin up with her hand.

"I can think of none."

"Really? That's a shame."

"Is not the purpose of a ghost story to inspire fear?" Spock inquired. "Fear is illogical, therefore ghost stories are also illogical."

"I disagree," she argued. "Ghost stories are a way to knit people together. I know you don't put a lot of stock in fear, but when you look more deeply, I think scary stories are a way to examine the hopes and fears we have about our world and the unknown. There's usually a moral to the story that warns of the risks for not following the rules. Surely there's something in all of Vulcan literature that could fit that bill?"

"I can think of a number of cautionary tales, but most are told for the benefit of children to teach them the virtue of correct conduct."

"Let's hear one then," she insisted.

Her index finger traced light circles around his pectoral muscles, causing them to involuntarily shiver.

"I do not believe any of them are particularly frightening, though I admit I am a poor judge. Perhaps you could provide an example."

She stopped stroking his chest and held her finger to her lips in thought. He regretted his request – he craved her touch.

"My bibi used to tell me a story about a dog that only came out in the darkest part of night. It had three heads and eyes that glowed red, and it would feast on the flesh of the wicked. If you were a good person, the dog wouldn't attack you. My brother used to come into my room with a red lens flashlight and scare me half to death."

"There is an evolutionary benefit to fearing what one cannot see."

"All it did was make me afraid of the dark," she laughed. "But tell me, if there's a benefit to fear, then why did Vulcans decide it wasn't worth keeping?"

"Many emotions have positive aspects, but-"

"I know," she interrupted, placing her fingers on his mouth. "You've told me many times. Emotions are illogical."

"May I ask why you have a sudden interest in ghost stories?"

"There seem to be a lot of them going around," she shrugged, sitting up. "Didn't you hear? Yorktown is haunted."

A vision of Krall standing among the crowd in the plaza flashed through his mind.  _Illogical_.  _Krall was dead._

She seemed to be examining him with great interest, and his eyes wandered from her face to study the slope of her bare breasts. She watched him watch her, and leaned forward to whisper in his ear, "I know another ghost story you might be interested in."

"What is that?"

"Have you ever heard of a succubus?"

He  _had_ , actually.

"A female supernatural entity that engages in sexual intercourse with men while they sleep, often to the detriment of their health."

She slid her thigh over his midsection and straddled him, and he was lost to her again. She was ruthless with her pleasure, and when she was done with him, Spock drifted to sleep in her arms.

When he awoke some time later, he was freezing cold and alone. He sat up, trying to adjust his eyes to the pitch-black room.

"Nyota?"

He heard a soft growl rumble from the foot of the bed, and caught a glimpse of three pairs of red eyes staring back at him in the darkness.


	2. Part II: The Haunting of Yorktown

A chill ran down his spine into his extremities. Fear was illogical – a primitive emotion that induced heightened levels of focused concentration to enable the body to avoid pain or death. Pain and death could be analyzed rationally, therefore fear was unnecessary.

He sat up and the red eyes disappeared into a swath of light that pooled from the open bathroom door.

_An experience involving the apparent perception of something not present. A hallucination._

"Spock, are you still awake?" Nyota called.

"Yes," he replied, his voice low and raspy.

Her figure appeared in the doorway, naked and unintentionally seductive. Her arm draped the doorframe, and her head tilted at a playful angle. She took two long steps forward and leapt onto the bed on all fours, but he couldn't drag his eyes away from the spot on the floor where he was certain he'd seen the red eyes.

No, not  _certain_.

Nyota nuzzled his neck and delivered a delicate kiss to his lips.  _It tingled_.

"Are you ok?"

His mind was busy analyzing the possible explanations for the image he'd just seen. Perhaps a visit to Dr. McCoy's temporary clinic aboard Yorktown was in order.

The red eyes appeared again and he jumped, eliciting a wide-eyed glower from the naked woman curled on her haunches next to him.

" _Spock_?"

His eyes flew to the tinted window of the cabin. A cargo ship was coming into one of the docking ports, and red lights mounted onto the aft of the ship were reflecting off of the glass and streaming into the room at an angle.

He wasn't sure which troubled him more: having hallucinations or letting his imagination run away with him. At least hallucinations tended to have a medical basis whereas an active imagination was the product of illogical fantasy.

"You're acting weird," Nyota said, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Even for you."

She leaned forward to kiss him and this time, he reciprocated. Aside from several brief reflections, he hadn't found time to properly meditate since before departing for Altamid nearly two weeks earlier. He realized in that moment just how profoundly it was affecting his health: he wasn't sleeping well, he was restless, and on several occasions, he'd found it difficult to suppress feelings of agitation.

 _He had even_ laughed _in front of Dr. McCoy in their travels together on Altamid. He still hadn't been able to repress_ that _memory._

In light of Ambassador Spock's death, the loss of the  _Enterprise_  and so much of its crew, and his rekindled relationship with Nyota, he had a greater need for meditation to maintain his mental discipline. As much as he longed to remain in her company, he couldn't neglect it any longer.

He stood and as the sheet fell from his waist, he watched Nyota's eyes shift in his direction and scroll along the lines of his body. She looked at him the way he looked at her, which was as arousing as it was comforting.

"We should get going or we won't have time for breakfast," she moaned, rolling off the edge of the bed with lithe grace.

"Breakfast?"

" _Yes_?"

She pulled her mouth into a frown, narrowing her eyes to consider him. "You know, that meal people eat in the morning?"

They had returned from their evening meal on the plaza at 2021, mated twice, and fell asleep for a brief interval. By his estimation, it couldn't be later than 2300.

"Computer, what is the time?" he asked.

" _Current Federation Standard Time is 0622 hours_ ," the computer droned.

_How could he have slept so long?_

Nyota's face contorted into an expression of inquisitiveness and derision as she stepped into a pair of white underwear.

He had been suffering from acute bouts of insomnia lately, so the fact he'd been able to sleep through the night was surprising, yet he did not  _feel_  as though he'd had a full period of rest.

It also troubled him that he could not account for approximately seven hours of his life. Losing one's sense of time was a well-documented phenomenon aboard starships and space stations when working irregular shifts. Environmental controls automatically adjusted light intensity and temperature to correspond to a standard planetary cycle, but Spock's body had never relied on any of these tricks to regulate his internal clock.

_He was wasting time._

He would need to return to his quarters to shave and acquire a duty uniform, and it was a four-minute walk to his cabin on the deck above, and his morning hygiene routine took eleven minutes. He allotted six minutes to travel to the dining facility, ten minutes to wait in line for the morning meal, and another four minutes to travel from the dining faculty to his temporary office, which left only seven minutes to eat.

He had shed his clothing at the foot of the bed the night before, but when he turned his body in that direction, he found only a bare floor. Nyota was pulling her red uniform dress over her head, pausing to shake out her hair. Behind her, he noticed a blue uniform shirt draped over the back of the chair by the desk.

_He had not worn a uniform since the morning prior._

He picked up the blue shirt and noticed in the seat of a chair were his boots, resting on top of a black undershirt, a pair of uniform slacks, socks, and underwear.

"Did you procure these from my quarters?" he asked, picking up the underwear.

"Um,  _no_?"

She rested her hands on her hips and stared at him. "What's  _with_  you? Seriously?"

He pulled his underwear on and gazed at the blue shirt on the chair.  _He wasn't sure how to answer her question._

"You wore your uniform here last night," she explained.

He continued to look at the clothing on the chair. She sneered, shook her head, and flopped down on the edge of the bed to put on her boots.

He finished dressing in silence, allowing his mind to run through the possibilities. She seemed completely unaware that anything was amiss, and continuing to question her would only needlessly concern her.

Nyota slid the zipper of her left boot upward and bounded to her feet. She shot him another suspicious look, and then strode to the lavatory to fix her hair. He waited for the sound of the automatic dryer before asking, "Computer, what is the current stardate?"

" _The current stardate is 2263.07_ ," said the monotonous voice.

_The date was correct._

It had seemed logical to presume that if he had been so wrong in his estimation of the time, his estimation of the date could have been just as flawed.

 _But how to explain the clothing?_  He had gotten off duty yesterday at 1200 hours, changed into civilian attire to attend the captain's belated birthday celebration, and then spent the evening with Nyota. He had not returned to his quarters nor changed back into uniform. His civilian clothing was nowhere in sight, and Nyota was convinced he had worn his uniform to her quarters the night before.

There were only three logical conclusions – either he was dreaming, he was the victim of a childish practical joke, or his sense of reality was becoming distorted.

He dismissed the dream theory, as dreams tended to be rich in fantastic imagery and never followed a logical timeline or order. Nyota liked teasing and enjoyed jokes, but he had never known her to engage in human pranks. The third supposition seemed the most likely, but it was also the most unsettling.

_Was he losing his mind?_

He recalled briefly thinking he'd seen Krall in a crowd on the plaza the previous evening, and for a fleeting instant, he believed in the possibility of a three-headed dog with red eyes, though he would have never conceptualized such a thing had Nyota not told him the legend passed down from her foremother.

This was encouraging, since it suggested his delusions were grounded in external references and were not being internally generated. He was not truly hallucinating; he was only imagining things.

He walked into the lavatory and found Nyota placing the last of a handful of pins into a sleek, low bun. Her eyebrows danced upward when she saw him, but she said nothing, probably due to the hairpins pursed between her lips. He rinsed his mouth with mouthwash, combed his immaculate hair with his fingers, and then paused to observe his reflection in the mirror.

 _Nothing looked out of the ordinary, and he certainly didn't_ feel _out of the ordinary._

But with only one frame of reference, how could he truly know if he was losing his grasp of reality?

They were quiet as they walked to the Starfleet dining facility for breakfast. They joined the queue to find the captain joking with Dr. McCoy.

"How are  _you_  this morning?" Kirk grinned.

Spock did not immediately reply, and Nyota pulled her arms over her head into a deep stretch and yawned.

"Late night, huh?" the doctor drawled, winking on the last syllable.

Nyota rolled her eyes and stood on her toes to look at the row of replicators. A lieutenant walked by with a heaping stack of strawberry pancakes and she mumbled, "That looks pretty good. I think I'm sold."

"I don't know," Kirk mused. "I have a bit of a sweet tooth this morning. I had a dream about a nice, sticky cinnamon bun."

"Not another chocolate puff?" Spock replied.

"Chocolate puff?"

"You offered high praise of the chocolate puffs served by the Ktarian food vendor on the main plaza," he reminded his captain.

" _Huh_?"

"Last night, when Nyota and I met you for dinner."

They both gaped at him.

"What are you  _talking_  about?" Kirk asked. "We didn't-"

" _What is going on with you_?" Nyota interrupted.

Spock slowed his breathing and considered the looks on their faces. He lacked Nyota's gift for social intuition, but it was apparent they were both deeply confused.

"What's  _what_?" the doctor asked, suddenly intrigued.

"Spock's lost his mind," Nyota sighed.

Dr. McCoy delivered his signature expression of disgruntled worry, bringing the total to of three sets of anxious eyes observing him.

"I believe I am overtired," he finally explained. "That is all."

"Yeah,  _sure_ ," Kirk nodded, though he looked doubtful. "I know we're on Yorktown, but it feels like the days are twice as long. I was in Commodore Paris' office until 2345 last night."

" _Sir, you're up_!" called a crewman over Spock's shoulder.

It was the captain's turn at the replicator. Kirk muttered his thanks and wheeled around clumsily, and soon the food replicator to his right became available.

"Ladies first," McCoy said, gesturing for Nyota to pass.

When she was safely out of earshot, the doctor leaned closer and murmured, "You feelin' ok?"

Spock looked him in the eye and hesitated. He was reluctant to admit he was experiencing illusions and lapses in his memory – the Vulcan mind was such a private place. Yet he had a duty to report a change in his medical condition to the Chief Medical Officer for the safety of himself and the crew. His relationship with the coarse and pessimistic doctor had evolved quite a bit over the years, but the events at Altamid had gone a long way in forging a unique brand of trust between them.

" _Spock_?"

"Do you have time available in your schedule to meet with me privately?" Spock asked.

"Sure, yeah," he nodded, crossing his arms more tightly about his chest and shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I have outprocessing all morning, but drop by any time after lunch. Assuming it's not an emergency, in which case-"

"I do not believe it is," he interrupted.

"Ok then. This afternoon."

He gave McCoy a tiny nod and proceeded to the available replicator at the far end of the line.

He sat down to a bowl of plomeek soup across from Nyota at a two-person table in the corner of the spacious eatery. Their knees touched, and the sensation of being physically close to her was gratifying.

She pushed at her fruit salad with her fork and propped her chin up on her left palm.

"I'm worried about you," she said in a soft voice.

"Worry is illogical," he replied, dipping his spoon into the warm plomeek broth.

He had a vivid recollection of the Ktarian stew, the piquant flavors and the warm sensation that traveled through his stomach and into his extremities. The traditional Vulcan soup before him seemed tasteless by comparison. It occurred to him that if he had not dined with Nyota and the captain the night before, he also could not have eaten the stew, but if that were true, how could he have such an intense memory of it?

She sat up straight and returned to picking the strawberries from her bowl. He knew she preferred them to melon, but favored pineapple above all other fruits, unless of course mango was available and of a certain ripeness.

He concentrated on eating, choosing to ignore his growing unease about the state of his mind. His focus was broken when he felt the tickle of her fingertips on his upper thigh, causing him to steal a glance in her direction.

Her eyes, which yesterday had been so alive with desire, were now dark with concern. She leaned forward and whispered, "You would tell me if something was going on, right?"

He wasn't sure what was happening, so there was nothing to tell her.

"I thought things were going so well," she added with a low sigh. "We were doing so much better."

"I believe we still are," he argued.

There was much more he wished to say to her, but they were in a crowded public place.  _Very crowded_. He looked around, noting the bustling atmosphere and loud background noise. Since their return from Altamid, the Starfleet dining facility hadn't been operating at full capacity due to the high casualties incurred in Krall's attack.

As he turned to face Nyota, his muscles tensed and his heart began to thump. His pupils dilated and the blood rushing through his ears dampened nearby sound. Walking in their direction was Ensign Syl, completely oblivious to the fact that she was dead.

"What are you looking at?" Nyota grumbled, twisting in her chair just as the ensign passed their table.

Spock's eyes followed her closely and the ensign began to stare back at him. She offered a polite nod and a nervous grin. The muscles of his neck pivoted as she passed until he heard a clicking sound near his right ear.

" _Spock_!" Nyota barked, snapping her fingers in his face.

"Yes?"

"What are you looking at?" Nyota scoffed.

"I was only-" He paused, knowing it was inappropriate to gawk at people, the opposite sex in particular, and especially when sitting with one's mate.

He turned to point in the ensign's direction and explained, "I am uncertain how-"

The words stalled in his throat as he watched Ensign Syl defy laws of matter and energy and pass through two crewmen walking in the opposite direction as if she were not made of solid matter. The crewmen didn't seem to notice, and neither did Syl.

" _What_?" Nyota snapped.

He blinked several times and watched her fade into the crowd of the eatery and finally disappear through a support pylon.

He whipped around in his seat to see Nyota looking behind him, trying to discover the source of his interest.  _She couldn't see Syl._

As far as he could gather from the short encounter, he was the only one who could. Moreover, Syl had seen him too. He began to consider the possibility of some other phenomenon at work, such as a parallel reality or mirror universe, but Nyota interrupted his hypothesizing to hiss in a low register, "What has gotten into you? You look like you've seen a ghost. You're  _scaring_  me, Spock."

_Ghosts were not real – he had already explained this to her._

Yet Ensign Syl had seemed real enough, and she was  _dead_ , and what was a ghost, if not the apparition of a dead individual capable of appearing to the living?  _There had to be a scientific explanation._

"I hope you can find a way to snap out of it," she huffed, spearing the last of the melon in her fruit bowl. "Maybe you should go see Dr. McCoy. I know you hate going to the doctor, but if this keeps up, I'll drag you to the clinic by your pointed ears if I have to."

He gave her a tentative nod.  _She often had a flair for drama._

He would not have time to consume the rest of his morning meal, so they stood and returned their food and dishes to the reclaimator and proceeded out onto the plaza.

Yorktown swelled with people, moving, shouting, and buzzing in all directions. As they pushed their way through the crowds, it occurred to Spock that he was unsure where he should go.

For the past five days he'd shared a temporary office at the headquarters building with Captain Kirk while construction of the  _Enterprise-A_  got underway, but if the population of Yorktown had been suddenly restored, had Krall's attack even happened?

He continued to follow Nyota, glancing over the balcony of the plaza. The Berellian monks were nowhere in sight, but a flurry of bots and maintenance crews continued to work on the damage from the  _Franklin_  and the Swarm, so it was reasonable to conclude that at least that facet of reality remained intact.

He followed her into the central headquarters building toward a bank of turbolifts. It was crowded in the lift, and when it stopped to deposit passengers on the fourth level, he judged her expression and took a cautious step forward. This was his usual stop, and she seemed unfazed by the idea he would choose to exit here.

They nodded a professional goodbye and Spock turned left into the corridor to his temporary office. It was much quieter here, as this floor housed many transient staff officers, most of whom were often engaged in briefings or demonstrations. He stopped outside the door to 4-31CA and flinched.

The harsh overhead light in the hallway above the entrance should have cast a short, single shadow to his left.  _There were_ two _shadows._

He reeled around to identify the source, but he was very much alone. He stared again at the floor, but the second shadow was gone. He moved his arms experimentally, and the lone shadow responded.

_Of course it responded – that's how shadows worked._

Fear was illogical. Worry was illogical. Red-eyed canines, dead ensigns strolling through the dining facility, and shadows with no source:  _all illogical_.

He contemplated going to visit Dr. McCoy early and was turning on his heel to do just that when he heard the office door slide open.

"Hey  _Spock_ ," Kirk beamed. "This has to be a first. You're  _late_."

"Say again?"

"It's 0701," he replied, pointing toward the overhead clock between their workstations.

"My apologies, captain. There is no excuse for my tardiness. I shall-"

"It's  _fine_ , Spock," he chuckled. "One minute late for the first time in more than five years? I think I can let it slide,  _just this once_. Kidding aside, I thought the only way you'd ever be late for duty would be if you died."

"Died?"

"It's a  _joke_ ," Kirk sighed. "Anyway, I just got a call from Scotty. He's panicking about some new warp coil design they're trying to install on the new ship, so I told him I'd meet him down at the shipyard. When I get back, can we go over next month's logistics reports?"

Spock swallowed. "Certainly."

"Are you ok? You look- I don't know… sort of pale."

"I am physically healthy," he replied.

" _Ok_ …" the captain murmured, tucking the PADD in his hand under his arm.

He had not finished the mission reports from Altamid, let alone the logistics reports for the upcoming month. Were his mental acuity functioning normally, he might have thought to point out the illogic in the captain's request, but Captain Kirk had already turned out of sight en route to the turbolifts.

He would just have to delay his visit to sickbay. He was late for duty and behind on his reports: two things that had never happened in the entirety of his career. He had no explanation for the morning's strange occurrences, but he reasoned postponing his trip to the doctor by several hours would make little difference in the outcome of his mental health.

He sat at his terminal, closed his eyes, and attempted to center himself. Surely a sound, scientific, logical explanation could be found for all of this.

The computer's security system beeped a warning due to inactivity, so he set to work scrolling through materiel and personnel databases to compile the necessary data for his report.

" _Why am I here_?" he thought suddenly.

It demonstrated remarkably poor judgment to draft a logistics report in light of everything that was happening. It was utterly illogical. The more he considered it, the more surprised he became at his earlier decision to remain in the office. It was almost like he hadn't chosen it at all…

He was about to rise to his feet when the door buzzed, startling him.

 _He had jumped: jumped like a high-strung, human infant during a game of peek-a-boo_. He was disappointed by these increasing bursts of emotionality and pushed aside a twinge of irritation.

"Enter," he called.

Nyota cruised through the door and said, "Hey, I thought you might be interested in lunch."

"We ate breakfast only twenty-four minutes ago," he responded.

"No, I don't think so."

"It is only-"

He stiffened. The tiny digital clock in the corner of his terminal read 1215.

His body grew cold and he stared at the time, completely transfixed. He referenced the clock above his head, but he already knew what it said.  _Five more hours of his life had completely evaporated._

"Come on, let's go," she smiled, taking several long steps toward him.

"I- I believe I should go to sickbay," he breathed.

"There's no need for that," she replied, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"No, I-"

His words were cut off when her lips met his. She began to run her hands down the inside of his trousers. He couldn't help the physical response elicited by her electric touch, but he gazed wide-eyed at the open door behind her. He started to pull away, but she grabbed his neck and leapt onto him, wrapping her legs around his waist.

"Nyota, stop," he resisted, grabbing her wrists. "Nyota,  _please_."

She held on with unanticipated, freakish strength. He started to claw at her fingers but her hips began to rock hungrily.

_Oh, how he wanted her._

He put her on the desk and ran his hands up her uniform skirt along the inside of her thighs, pushing away her soft underwear to explore her most sensitive parts.  _She was dripping wet_.

She groaned and leaned forward to kiss him again, but he managed to snap back to his senses.

"Nyota, someone will see," he insisted, jerking his hands back. "Nyota-"

She interrupted him again with her tongue, running it across the part in his lips to slide it into his mouth. She tasted warm and sweet and the wetness of her mouth made him involuntarily shiver. He almost couldn't breathe through his intense desire for her, but with his last sliver of discipline, he twisted his face away.

When he locked eyes with her again, a sharp yelp managed to escape his lips. Her eyes were completely black, void of any life. She opened her mouth to reveal a set of long, silvery fangs, and then sunk them into the intersection of his neck and shoulder. Pain ripped through him as he tore away and gazed at her in disbelief.

She smiled, causing his green blood ooze from her mouth and run down her chin. In a series of synchronous movements, he raced for the door as she leapt onto him, tearing once again at the flesh of his neck. He flipped her over his shoulder onto the ground at his feet, leaping over her body to flee through the open door.

The corridor was pitch black. He could hear a guttural howl bellow from inside the office, and seeing no other choice, he pushed ahead into the complete darkness. He could hear the panting and scratching of claws behind him and increased his pace, but he was completely blind.

She was almost upon him when his body slammed into a solid surface.  _A person._

" _I know you_ ," a voice said, cutting the darkness with a cold chill.

_Spock knew him too._

_Krall._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Figuring out stardates in the new AOS series is tough for a few reasons. I ended up going with the theory on Trek Guide that proposes a standard Earth year is divided by 100, making each numeral after the decimal representative of 3.652422 days. Therefore, Kirk's 30th birthday in 2263.04 would be between January 14th and January 18th, 2263 by our modern calendar. The events of this story take place roughly two weeks after Kirk's official birthday, so a stardate of 2263.07 corresponds to a date between January 25th and January 29th, 2263 by our modern calendar.
> 
> This is problematic because they're still using a standard 24-hour clock, even though stardate days are now 3.652422 days long, which would mean they would need an 87.658128-hour clock for consistency. Wouldn't it sound really silly to say, "Oh yes, I'll see you for dinner at 7930 hours?"
> 
> I know this really seems like minutia, but it really, really bothers me because I put a lot of research into my stories and when canon is so blatantly inconsistent, part of the perfectionist in me suffers. If anyone knows of any better ideas to make it work, I'm all ears!


	3. Part III: A New Concern

His head was swimming and his limbs were heavy. He reached his hand to the pain in his neck and felt the blood flowing down his fingers.

" _Spock_ ," Krall said, his thick accent booming off the walls of the dark corridor.

"You're dead," Spock declared. "This is not real."

A powerful hand wrapped around his throat, pulling him to a standing position before lifting him off the ground. His voice stalled in his throat, leaving only a staggered, whistling sound to emerge.

Krall touched his forehead to Spock's and his mind began to fray. The telepathic connection between them drove him within inches of madness. His logic melted away and the compulsion to scream rose in his throat, but it could not escape around Krall's tremendous grip on his neck.

Flashes of Krall's memories danced through his consciousness. Romulan warbirds, the sad image of Balthazar Edison transmuting into the figure of Krall, the Swarm, draining the lives of countless stranded crews.

_Sadness, loneliness, anger, fear, desperation, rage._

Krall's emotions became Spock's, and with the last of his failing energy, he yanked at the man's fingers and twisted hard, listening to the synchronous popping of broken bones. Krall shrieked and threw him against the wall, causing hundreds of bright lights to streak through his vision.

He crawled to his feet, unsteady from the catastrophic blood loss. Krall inched toward him and Spock knew he lacked the energy to fight or flee. He closed his eyes and tried to center himself. He would face death as a Vulcan: without anguish or fear, accepting the natural conclusion of his life.

_He longed to see Nyota just once more._

"Commander Spock?" asked a soft voice.

"Nyota?"

"No, commander," the voice repeated.

_Syl_. She was  _dead_.

When he opened his eyes, a faint blue light glowed in the distance and he could see the young woman approaching Krall from behind.

"I saw you this morning," she said, a demure smile cutting across her face. "And I know you saw me too."

Spock slumped against the wall, gasping for air and struggling to keep his eyes open. He grew aware of a ringing in his ears muting all nearby sound, but he could hear Syl's voice humming through his mind. " _Go, go, go_."

Krall turned and grabbed her by the throat instead and slammed her hard into the opposite wall. She seemed unfazed but continued to watch Spock. Her body slowly started to dissolve into wisps of black smoke. She never stopped smiling, and her persistent joy numbed Spock's soul.

"Go," she said. "You're wasting time."

Krall continued to pummel her against the wall. Spock turned and ran in the opposite direction, his knees knocking against each other and his feet clumsy and slow.

Six red eyes pierced the darkness three meters ahead, illuminating rows of angry teeth. The monstrous three-headed dog blocked his path and he felt his gut sink again.

_This was an illusion. A dream._

But then why was he in pain? Why was his shirt slick with his blood? Why was he on the verge of unconsciousness? Those things were real enough.

"Fear is illogical," he slurred. " _Fear is… a waste… of critical… mental processing_ -"

The dog lunged at him and his knees buckled, causing him to fall forward on all fours. A familiar sound ricocheted through his ears – the chanting of the Berellian monks. He looked around the black hallway, but it seemed to be coming from everywhere.

The dog was almost upon him. The snapping of its jaws added to the chorus of confusion ringing through the hallway. He could feel hot breath on his face and he swung at the animal, making long strokes with his weakened arms. Several of his blows landed, and through sheer will, he struggled back to his feet and staggered down the hallway.

The scratching of claws on the hard concrete floor in the distance spurred him faster. He pushed open the door to the stairwell, slammed it in the dog's face, and half ran, half tumbled down four flights of stairs.

Blinding light pierced his eyes when he emerged from the stairwell onto the first floor of the administration building. People walked in all directions, oblivious to the horrors of the fourth floor.

"Help…" he moaned, fighting to keep his balance.

The front of his blue uniform shirt was soaked with his blood. He pawed feebly at the bite Nyota's fangs delivered to his neck, feeling his pulse pump out more blood, delivering him that much closer to death.  _He was so cold._

_Why wouldn't anyone help him?_

A woman walked in his direction, eliciting a glimmer of hope, but as she drew closer, Spock sensed she wasn't looking at him. A rush of icy air clouted his cheeks, and a moment later, she passed through him as if he didn't exist.

_He was going to die._

He collapsed and rested his head against the stairwell doorframe. He shut his eyes and prepared for death, willing whatever logic remained to give him serenity in his final moments. He became aware that he couldn't hear anything. The chanting of the monks was gone, but so too was  _any_  perception of sound.  _Was this death_?

His eyes flickered open and he watched a noiseless parade of Starfleet personnel stroll through the lobby, oblivious to the dying man in the corner.

He slowed his breathing and attempted to center himself, but just as he closed his eyes, the penetrating cry of a woman shattered his concentration.

_Nyota_.

He crawled into a hunched standing position and lumbered toward the exit.

"No!" she screamed. "Please!"

He discovered some previously unknown reservoir of strength and broke into an awkward jog. He was aware of another voice, distant and hollow in the far reaches of his mind, but he heard Nyota with astounding clarity. She was terrified, and he found he was no longer able to restrain his own fear.

He burst onto the plaza, finding it completely empty. His frantic eyes scanned and his ears filled with a low droning sound. And then there she was, twenty meters away, beautiful and shapely in a coral dress.

She leaned against the railing of the balcony, her back toward him, observing the lower decks. The humming sound grew louder and pulsed with harmonic vibrations.

"Nyota?" he gasped.

She turned. She could  _see_  him.

He noticed the shiny stream of tears rolling down her face and felt compelled to comfort her, but then the plaza exploded.

Splintering glass and screaming metal littered the floor as the Swarm teemed in through space. He never lost sight of her, and as he reeled forward, he saw something else that made his blood grow colder still.

_Krall_.

The massive man grabbed Nyota by the back of her neck and began to drain her. The deafening sound of the Swarm drew nearer, drowning Spock's screams of rage. He couldn't lose her.  _Not again._

"Spock?" he heard Nyota scream. "Spock,  _please_!"

"Nyota?" he choked.

The pain in his neck grew unbearable, but he found he was becoming more alert. His strength was returning and he closed his eyes and broke into a run straight into the heart of the chaos on the plaza.

" _Spock_!"

When he opened his eyes, all he could hear was the blood rushing through his ears, the sounds of her frantic panting, and a metallic clinking behind him. His lids were heavy and slow, and he couldn't process the scene.

"Spock?" she whimpered. "Oh,  _thank you_."

She was sitting beside him in her bed, clutching his hand with more force than he would have thought she possessed. He was naked excepting a thin sheet covering the lower half of his body.

He heard the familiar whirring of a tricorder and turned his head to locate the source. Pain ripped through his head, forcing an involuntary groan.

"I think the cordrazine is gonna do it."

"Dr. McCoy?"

"Welcome back to the land of the living," he grumbled.

He stepped into view and Spock was stunned by the sight of bright red blood flowing from his nose and down around the corners of his mouth like a gruesome mustache. He held a medical tricorder in one hand and a hypospray in the other.

"What- what has-"

His mind was foggy and foreign and seemed to be having trouble forming words.

"What's wrong with him?" Nyota cried.

"He's coming around," the doctor replied, studying the medical instrument in his hands. "It's a combination of the ambizine and the cordrazine. Give him a few minutes."

"What has happened?" Spock croaked.

" _That's_ … harder to explain," Dr. McCoy admitted. "I'd like to get you to sickbay, but if I know you as well as I  _think_  I do, I'm sure you'd prefer to go in somethin' other than your birthday suit."

"Birthday suit?"

"Naked," Nyota moaned. "He means  _naked_."

He glanced down at his bare chest and noticed Nyota cringe. His consciousness grew more vivid with each passing second, and he started to reconstruct the events of the past few hours. They no longer made sense in the context of his current setting.

McCoy's inhaled through his teeth, rolled his eyes, and inched toward the lavatory. "I'll give you a bit of privacy. I'm curious to see what you did to my nose, anyway."

"Are you suggesting that I-"

"Broke my nose?" the doctor finished. "Yeah, who knew you had such a mean left hook? I never took you for a southpaw."

Once the bathroom door closed, the muffled sounds of hissing and swearing began. Spock stood on trembling legs and Nyota tucked her body under his right shoulder to steady him. He could feel the effects of the stimulant and sedative coursing through his body now, and disliked the feeling of simultaneous lethargy and excitement.

Once Nyota was satisfied he could stand on his own, she hurried to dress herself. He sat on the edge of the bed to don his underwear, blinking several times to focus.

"What happened?" he finally asked.

"I don't really know," she replied, her voice thick with anxiety. "We had sex, you fell asleep, I started stroking your face and then you started having a seizure or something. Your eyes rolled back in your head and you were choking."

"What did we do before that?"

"We went to dinner with the captain."

"On the plaza?" Spock asked, shuffling on the bed to put on his slacks.

"Yeah, why?"

The scientific explanation he'd been hunting for all along – a psychedelic dream. Relief was illogical, but it rushed over him anyway.

"Are you  _decent_?" the doctor called from the lavatory.

"Yeah, we're dressed," Nyota shouted.

McCoy emerged with a piece of cotton shoved up each nostril and proclaimed, "Jeez Spock, you look terrible."

"I… apologize for assaulting you," Spock said.

"All in a day's work," he grumbled. "Now that you're not literally chokin' on your tongue, can you tell me what happened?"

Spock began to relate the events of his bizarre dream state and was explaining about seeing Ensign Syl in the dining facility when McCoy stopped him.

"So… he just had a  _bad dream_?" Nyota scoffed with an awkward laugh.

"No, I don't think so," McCoy replied. "I think the dream was just a symptom of a larger problem. Are you on any medication I don't know about?"

"No."

"Eat or drink anything unusual?"

"I consumed a single malted beverage at the captain's party as is customary, but as you know, alcohol has no effect on my physiology. I ate a Ktarian stew for dinner. Other than that, I have only had water."

" _Hmmm_ ," the doctor frowned.

"The stew," Spock remarked, observing the plastic bowl by the entry table. "Nyota ordered the same stew but did not eat it."

"I tell you what, let's go to sickbay," the doctor murmured, pulling out his communicator. "Bring your stew."

The disappeared into the matter stream of a site-to-site transport and were met by the sparse night staff of the walk-in clinic at Yorktown. McCoy ushered them into a private room, ordered Spock into an inclined biobed, and began a neural scan on Spock and chemical analysis of the Ktarian stew.

Nyota grabbed McCoy's communicator, flipped it open, and said, "Lieutenant Uhura to Captain Kirk."

She repeated the call twice before a garbled voice answered. " _Yeah_?  _What_?"

" _Are you ok_?"

" _Yeah_ ," replied the captain's voice. " _What's wrong_?"

Nyota exchanged glances with Dr. McCoy and she explained, "He ate it too."

He snapped his fingers at her, holding out his palm to accept the communicator.

" _Jim, have you experienced any unusual physical symptoms_?"

" _Bones_?"

" _Yeah, the symptoms, Jim. Seizures, night terrors_?"

" _I was asleep! What the hell is this about_?"

Spock's ears were tuned to the conversation, but he was exhausted. He drifted into a dreamless sleep, and awoke what felt like second later to Nyota stroking his cheek with the back of her hand. Her lips parted into a smile when she caught his eyes.  _Contentment_.

"Good to see you again!" the doctor called.  _Annoyance_.

"Doctor," Spock acknowledged, turning his head to see McCoy standing at the foot of the biobed with a PADD in his hand.

"Turns out, you ate some bad stew," Dr. McCoy explained. "Well, Jim tells me it was actually pretty delicious, but apparently it comes with some nasty side effects for Vulcan biochemistry."

"Explain."

The doctor illuminated a screen to Spock's right and flipped through a chemical database, stopping at a complex steroidal compound.

"This is an analog of a chemical you Vulcans call gal-en. These groups  _here_ ," McCoy said, pointing to several side chains, "They target specific receptors in the Vulcan brain. In small amounts, it works as an analgesic. Moderate doses cause vivid hallucinations, and larger doses cause unconsciousness and potentially death from respiratory arrest."

"My boyfriend, the druggie," Nyota scoffed, shaking her head.

"I did not  _knowingly_  consume this substance," Spock argued. "I would never-"

"I  _know_ , Spock," she said, leaning her head on his chest. "I know."

She sat up so the doctor could begin taking readings with his tricorder, and Spock detected a tiny frown spread across his features.

"Is anything wrong?" he asked.

"Your cortical scan is all over the map," McCoy explained. "One reading normalizes, and then another one spikes. At first I thought it was residual effects from the gal-en, but I can't stabilize it."

Nyota's hand tightened around his.

"I just got done running a blood sample, and your body's emitting some strange hormones which I've never seen during any of your physicals."

Spock's attention shifted from McCoy's words to the innermost part of his mind. He was not  _certain_ , but it would explain so much. He had been more emotional at Altamid but had attempted to rationalize it with his anguish over Ambassador Spock's death and disintegration of his relationship with Nyota.

Since returning to Yorktown, he'd been eating less – the stew was the first meal he'd taken in days. He wasn't sleeping well and suppressing his emotions had grown more difficult. When it came to Nyota, he'd never hungered for her quite like he had in recent weeks. The doctor's tests only helped confirm his hypothesis.

_He was entering pon farr._

He had never experienced pon farr, and therefore, he hadn't recognized the symptoms in himself. Due to his unique biology, he had been unsure if he would ever experience the unsettling condition that would strip him of his logic and reduce him to a an emotional shadow of his former self, a creature acting on impulse and instinct.  _Now he knew._

He did not know when he would enter the plak tow, as pon farr often slowly emerged over a period of months. When he considered his symptoms holistically, he estimated the blood fever would be upon him within the next several weeks.

"Spock?" McCoy asked, his eyebrows raised in concern.

"I do not believe I am ill, doctor. I wish to return to my quarters."

"Are you kidding me? I get called to your room in the middle of the night because you're havin' a seizure and stopped breathing, I take you to sickbay and find out your brainwaves are on the fritz, and now you're tellin' me you're  _fine_. Like you're just going to walk it off?"

"Walk it off" was not technically correct, but he had no desire to discuss such a personal matter with Dr. McCoy.

"Spock, I know you're stubborn, but you should stay here until he figures out what's wrong," she urged.

Her request was logical, based on the limited information she possessed, but he refused.

"I do not wish to stay."

"I can  _order_  you to stay."

"I ask that you do not."

" _Dammit_ , Spock!" the doctor growled, his southern accent growing thicker as his anger swelled. "It's like you know what's goin' on but won't tell me."

"It is none of your concern."

"To hell it isn't! I'm your  _doctor_!"

"Yes, my  _human_  doctor. My situation stems from my Vulcan physiology."

Well then, if you know what it is, why don't you give me a hint rather than make me spend the rest of the night up to my elbows in the Vulcan medical database?"

"What's the problem, Spock?" Nyota chided. "He's only trying to help you."

"He is not  _capable_  of helping me," Spock tried to explain.

"Are you questioning my skills as a physician?" the doctor asked, his voice cold and low.

_Humans – so temperamental._

"Your expertise is not in question. You have saved my life on numerous occasions and I am grateful, but-"

"Then stop acting like a jackass and let me do my job," he interrupted.

"Will you allow me to speak with Lieutenant Uhura alone?"

"Spock,  _I'm_  not the doctor," she sneered, motioning toward McCoy.

"Do you believe I will die within the next several minutes without some form of medical intervention?" Spock asked the physician.

" _No_ ," he answered, his tone biting and sarcastic.

"Then please allow me a brief, private conference with Lieutenant Uhura," he insisted.

The doctor crossed his arms and glared at Spock but eventually left, engaging the privacy force field on his way out.

He glanced at Nyota. Her face was stony and her fingernails dug into her biceps. She seemed relieved, irritated, and concerned all at the same time.

For years he had considered how to broach this subject with her, but had never found a reasonable occasion to do so. He did not wish to upset their newly reformed relationship. She often teased him for his rational mind, but he knew she loved him for the man he was anyway, and he was on the verge of becoming something completely unfamiliar to her. The loss of logic was terrifying enough, but the loss of Nyota would be more than he could bear.

"What is it?"

"This is a very… delicate issue to discuss," he began.

"Considering we've spent almost as much time naked as we have clothed today, I don't know why you feel like you have anything to hide from me," she retorted. "Or Dr. McCoy, for that matter, who woke up in the middle of the night and raced to my room to save your life, no questions asked. And he could have asked a  _lot_  of questions, given that when he showed up, you were  _naked_  in my bed. I think it's safe to say he can be discreet."

"I do not question his professional ethics," Spock argued. "But my condition doesn't concern him."

"He's a doctor-"

"But it  _does_  concern you," he interrupted.

" _Me_? What are you talking about?"

"Every seven years of my adult life, I experience a temporary loss of my logical faculties. It is a condition known as pon farr."

"Ok,  _so_?"

"It is very private. It simply isn't discussed, not even among my own people."

"Not even with your own  _doctors_?"

"No."

She gaped at him and snorted. "Then how did  _you_  find out about it?"

"My father explained it to me when I reached adolescence. I have never spoken of it since."

Her eyes narrowed and her hands wrapped more tightly around her arms. She sighed and sat back down on the biobed. "I'm sorry, you're trying to talk to me about something that's obviously very difficult and I'm getting frustrated with you."

Her hip was nestled by his ribcage.  _She was warm._

"So, how do you cure this… this pon farr?"

"I only know of three ways to resolve it," he explained, choking down irrational feelings of anxiety.

"Then is sounds like you have options, at least."

He inhaled, holding the air in his lungs until his mind quieted, and continued. "The most practical solution for resolving pon farr is to take a mate."

A smile crested her mouth but reverted into a grimace. "When you say 'take a mate,' are you referring to  _any_  mate, or just a Vulcan one?"

"Not just any mate, Nyota," he said. " _You_."

"I thought I  _was_  your girlfriend, your  _mate_."

"For a Vulcan, taking a mate concerns more than just the physical act of mating. It includes linking the minds together through a telepathic bond. Pon farr is as much about forging telepathic connections as it is physical ones."

"So then let's do that, if that's what you need."

"I have no wish to deceive you," he continued. "It is more complicated than that."

"How so?"

"Establishing a telepathic mating bond links two individuals together with a moderate degree of permanence. In Vulcan culture, entering into a mating bond is the equivalent of marriage."

Her eyes widened and she sat back, observing the features of his face.

"Are you asking me if I want to marry you, or are you asking yourself if you want to marry me?"

His language had been deliberately imprecise as a means of judging her reaction before proceeding to ask the question. "I believe I already explained I never wished to be parted from you again."

She remained silent for a long time. "Ok, Spock. Yeah, sure, ok."

Her face lost its serious edge as nervous laughter bolted from her lips.

"Such an informal kun-ut would not necessarily be legally binding," he continued.

She placed her index finger to his mouth. "We can sort out all the details later, but I promise you, Spock, whatever you need from me, it's yours. It always was."

He nodded, feeling a powerful wave of relief float through his body. He reached for her hand and experienced the elation of ozh'esta and an incredible sensation of arousal.

" _Oh come on_!" a muffled voice yelled from outside. "Are you done having your little heart-to-heart so I can go back to treating my patient?"

"Explaining this to Dr. McCoy might be a little weird," she grimaced.

"I would appreciate any discreet assistance you can provide," he admitted.

They were both skilled in the arts of persuasion – Spock with logic and Nyota with emotional appeals.  _Perhaps he needed her more than he realized._

An hour later they were allowed to leave. They had struck a compromise – McCoy would agree to put him on medical leave for three weeks so long as Spock agreed to wear a cortical monitor. He was very vocal with his disappointment in Spock's refusal to divulge his personal situation, but Nyota had done excellent work in smoothing things over.

She planned to request three weeks of personal leave from the captain later that morning. Because Spock could not precisely identify when the plak tow would begin, she'd offered to sacrifice that much leave to make sure she was available. She'd started to make a joke about "taking sex leave" when Dr. McCoy was out of the room, but seemed to reconsider when she saw just how uncomfortable the topic made him.

They left Yorktown's clinic and walked together through the quiet plaza in pursuit of food. It was an unusual hour for dining, but Nyota hadn't eaten dinner, and though Dr. McCoy had declared the stew safe for human consumption, she was reluctant to try it.

Despite the fact that it was nearly 0200, the Berellian monks continued their solemn chant down on the lower level. He stopped to observe them for a moment over the side of the balcony.

"It's a pretty eerie sound," Nyota mused. "It makes me feel… I don't know.  _Anxious_."

"I heard the sound of their chanting during my hallucinations," he replied. "I agree it is unsettling."

"What else did you see?"

He finished telling her of his mind's journey into the macabre, and when he was done, she let loose a low whistle. "Wait a minute, so you're saying I tried to have sex with you in your office and turned into some kind of demon that literally took a bite out of your neck?"

Spock rubbed the left side of his neck, feeling the tenderness from Dr. McCoy's multiple hyposprays. "Yes."

"And you ran into Krall in the dark? And Syl? And my bibi's three-headed dog?"

"I just told you the story," he replied.

"I  _know_. It's weird though. It's like you had all of my worst nightmares wrapped into one."

_A curious statement._  Vulcans didn't tend to dwell on traumatic experiences that often led to irrational fears in other species. Perhaps it was possible his mind was already more closely linked to Nyota's than he knew, and his mind had borrowed more visually stimulating imagery from her consciousness to supplement his hallucinations.

They hadn't  _all_  been her fears though. He remembered watching Krall siphon the life from her, and recalled the helplessness and fury and terror. Those emotions had been  _his_.

"I bet  _you_  weren't afraid though," she grinned, leaning over the railing to catch his attention.

He stood up and replied, "Fear is illogical."

She rolled her eyes, tucked her arm in his, and wheeled him toward the handful of food vendors that were still open.

"Who knows, maybe you were only experiencing visions from Ungrenshsk," she teased.

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "The Ktarian day of the dead?"

"Hey, think of all the crazy stuff we've seen over the last three years out in deep space. Weirder things have happened," she shrugged. "Someone should probably tell her to stop serving food to Vulcans though."

Spock surveyed the plaza and didn't see her. There were more than a dozen empty food stands, but the vendors locked them after hours. The Ktarian woman's stand was gone.

They approached a Tellarite man offering pungent salads and casseroles and Nyota asked, "Hey, do you know what happened to the Ktarian lady?"

"What Ktarian lady?" the Tellarite barked.

"She was about three stands away from you yesterday evening," she explained, pointing over her shoulder.

There was no visible hole where her stand had been, and in its place was a cart that served frozen desserts.

"There's no Ktarian woman who serves food on the plaza," he insisted. "I've never even seen a Ktarian on Yorktown."

"Perhaps you have simply never encountered her," Spock argued.

"Look, my family runs this stand at all hours of the day, and has since Yorktown was opened to the public. I know  _everyone_  here," he growled. "And there is no Ktarian food vendor."

"That's not possible," Nyota replied. "We saw her last night. She served us stew."

The Tellarite sneered and shrugged. "Maybe you saw a ghost."


End file.
